My Drive and My Purpose
by Tebbers
Summary: The actions of the Assassins haven't changed over the years, though it seems that their motivations have. Altaïr must deal with a defecting ally, though it brings questions to the surface for his own motivations.


a/n Completely random side note. Not really relevant to the storyline, but I suppose one could wonder what's going on in Altaïr's head in dealing with Aisling for so long. Read that last statement with this accent – 'This is why Altaïr isn't banging Aisling.' Nevermind my whole mental notes of 'that won't ever work' and 'Just because there's a guy and a girl in a story doesn't mean they're gonna want each other' /rant Altaïr is Ubisoft's. Aisling and Tanya are mine.

No, this is not AU. There is an explanation as to why Altaïr is alive in 1998 New York. Full back-story on that is in Feathers, but it's not integral to understanding here. Snippets might explain it.

Drive. Purpose. Motive Power.

Altaïr placed the body carefully on the couch, wondering how long it would be before someone came to find it and give it a proper burial. The foam of the one-shot was bubbling out her nose and mouth. He'd figured he'd punctured a lung when he'd killed her. Looking around the apartment, he was satisfied to see no sign of his visit. Nothing amiss. No blood on the floor. The foam from the one-shot would stop any more blood from seeping from her wounds. Handy little auto injectors, those one-shots. They contained a couple reactive liquids that would foam and spread before congealing into a reasonably viscous gel to stop internal bleeding. Worked well if applied before one was dead. This wouldn't be the case in Tanya's scenario. She was dead before he'd retrieved the one-shot from his belt, bleeding into the towel he'd take with him when he left. There would be no traces. No fingerprints. Nothing to follow. Just as there had been on every other mark he'd eliminated. This one was unusual. In eight hundred years, he'd never had to kill one of his own. Tanya had changed that.

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It was hardly a week ago when he'd first heard her name. Tanya Ferris. The handwritten letter was waiting for him when he got home from the airport.

'Safety and peace, Marcus.

I'm glad negotiations went well in Zurich. I hope the flight back was quiet, but then again, I know how you like to fly.

I know you're really busy, but I have a hiring prospect I need you to interview. Her name is Tanya Ferris. (2493) She's already in our company, and She was going to meet with Kane Sable, but I thought she should talk to you first. She's there in New York.

Sorry I couldn't meet you here in person, but I needed to get things in order for the Seoul deal.

Dinner in the freezer.

Celia'

Simple, direct and concise, as any personal assistant should be. Aisling played the role well, and she seemed to fit a Celia. He wasn't overly fond of Marcus, but that was the name he was using this particular decade. The letter was straightforward enough for anyone reading it, but Altair pulled a good bit more information from it, flagged by de Sable's name. Apparently one of their own assassins was preparing to turn on them, and he was to ensure their silence. Easy enough, if she were still in town, which he imagined that she was if Aisling was calling on him. Whether the mark needed money, a threat or death wasn't clear, so he'd have to look into that as well as establishing that she hadn't talked already. The number following her name was a mystery, but first, and more importantly, dinner was in the freezer.

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The next day, as he left, he heard the familiar raspy voice of Eric. "Hey, you just missed Celia."

Altair turned to face the man sitting at the end of the alley, sheltered from the breeze against a gate that never closed. Eric looked like most of the rest of New York's castoffs: grimy, over layered and more than a little unkempt. Blue eyes shone out over a somewhat patchy black beard. They were keen, alert, and intelligent. His smile was ready, and practiced into inebriation, though Altair had never seen the man drink. Altair returned the smile, offering a hand to the other man. "Did I? By how much?"

Eric took his hand and hauled himself out of the windblown debris that had shielded him last night. Once on his feet, he shook Altair's hand heartily. "Nah, that little cutie left two nights ago. Said she couldn't wait on your sorry ass no more." He said with a laugh.

Altair shook his head. "How about some breakfast, Eric?"

"Sounds good. I could go for some waffles and bacon." Eric said, a little overeager at the prospect.

Altair shook his head, knowing the man played his part well, though sometimes he couldn't help but wonder how much was Eric's show and how much the man sacrificed to keep his cover as lookout of this well disguised modern day stronghold. Altair was pretty sure that Eric had some information to share. He was perceptive, though he'd apparently missed the true association between Altair and Aisling. To hear the bum talk, Aisling was just a pretty piece of collateral damage waiting to happen once she found out too much.

Over breakfast, Altair only found out that it was very quiet lately, and he wondered if it had anything to do with the new mark. If she was to defect soon, perhaps she'd already made contact, which severely limited his window of opportunity. He needed to see where she had any influence or even exposure. He left Eric with more than double the tab and left, heading out toward where she supposedly lived. There were twelve Tanya Ferrises in the city's phone listings, which was a little less than he thought, but only one had a number ending in 2493, and he recognized the tip off when he saw it. Searching further and making a few calls, he found that she worked in a grocery distribution center, and had for the last six years. He wasn't familiar with her, or what significant contributions she had for the Brotherhood. Neither could he see the threat in her defecting, but he knew better than to believe appearances. In fact, sitting in a Dunkin Donuts situated on the ground floor of her apartment building, he caught a glimpse of her, and knew immediately that she held a great deal of very damaging information. There was nothing in her appearance to indicate this, but he could see the faint glow about her. This glow was different from that which he could draw out of others with a bit of focusing. The light they gave off generally hinted at intentions and loyalties. It was something he could always do, and used whether he knew the source of it or not. Her light indicated that she was similar. A bit more than just human, perhaps gifted with something of a genetic anomaly. He couldn't imagine how it had manifested, but with that glow, it was obvious that not only was she aware of it, but she was nurturing it as he'd done with his own ability.

He checked the time. Just after seven thirty. It was probably a half hour by subway to the warehouse where she worked. Maybe an hour and a half by car or cab. He leaned forward toward the window to look down the street after her, seeing her glow descend beneath the sidewalk. He stood and moved outside into the noise of traffic. He descended onto the platform as the train departed, only just catching the glimpse of her through the window. She had dusty brown hair, about shoulder length that had a bit of a wave to it. Whether it was natural or not was questionable. She had Aisling's distinctly Celtic nose. Short, sharp and slightly upturned. That was all that drew from that pool of genes though. Her eyes were narrow and set wide. Her lips were thin, and her mouth was broad and expressive. Currently, it was twisted into a look of irritated distraction. The train snaked off down the tunnel, and he waited for the next.

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The warehouse where she worked was pretty nondescript as far a distribution centers go. The whole compound was fenced, but not edged with barbed wire. A sleepy guard admitted trucks, and paid no mind to Altair as he walked by on the sidewalk. He circled halfway around the block, finding the chain link fence close between the brick and mortar buildings of both the distribution center, and whatever its neighbor might be. Looking through the chain links, he didn't see any surveillance equipment, or prying eyes, so he hopped up, catching the top bar of the fence and pulling himself over, careful not to snag the gray jumpsuit he wore. Not the most breathable of fabrics, but the generally accepted getup for wayward custodial staff. It was really just a last resort. Altair was willing to bet that this place had barely a half dozen on the cleaning crew, and he would likely he recognized as an outsider with anything beyond a cursory glance. If anyone saw him at all, which usually, no one did.

He found a side door, and the electronic lock yielded as the piece of Eden grew hot in his breast pocket. This one was flat and rectangular, about six centimeters by ten, and only one thick. It worked well with mechanical electronics, and since they'd acquired it a couple decades ago, Altair was willing to bet that his lock picking and hotwiring had gotten pathetically rusty. He poked his head into the narrow hallway. The ceiling was low, and a row of widely spaced doors lined the opposite wall. They were labeled with numbers, and listening at one, he was treated to the unwanted recounting of an intimate doctor visit. The second door was quiet, but for the tapping of keys.

Footsteps thudded around the corner, walking with purpose, but not urgency. Altair fell into a similar pace, cutting right, away from the approaching footsteps. He heard them turn the corner, and knew they had to see him if they were even looking down the hall. He sped his pace, turning left at the corner and coming to double doors leading into the cavern of the warehouse. He heard one of the office doors open and hesitate. He paused, listening.

"Hey, Tanya. Wanna do lunch today?" A young male voice asked. It held more laughter in the tone than hope.

"Not today, Morris." The lilt of her voice was tinged with distraction.

"Yeah, you said that yesterday."

"And the day before that."

He laughed, and Altair wondered at the humor. If the man was trying for a date in a game that he obviously had a streak of losses. The exchange was rather candid, and Tanya's irritation seemed to stem from something other than her coworker, so Altair was inclined to believe that this was a daily ritual, or at least a common joke. "Somebody's got to remind you that you don't have to be alone all the time." Morris finally countered.

"I'm sure your wife loves this little reminder." Tanya's tone was dry.

"Pshah. Little sweetcake like her says you need to break out of your shell anyway. Besides, she doesn't care as long as I'm not banging you." Altair shook his head at the effrontery of it. This had to be a long running joke.

"I don't think there's any danger of that, Casanova."

"Hey, I got you to smile at least." A brief pause. Surprise lit up his tone when he continued. "And a smile like that! I didn't do that one. What's going on with you, Tanya?" The last melted into a sly tone.

Her voice was low when she answered. "There's someone.."

"Someone?" The tone was eager glee, said as if she's named a name.

"What?" Tanya asked with a chuckle. "Are you going to propose?"

"No, you just knocked me off my feet with the revelation. So? Who is it? What's his name? Or hers. I don't care."

Another laugh from Tanya. "His, and I can't tell."

The glee fell from his voice, replaced by dismay. "He doesn't even know you exist. Does he?"

Tanya's voice was low, resigned, when she answered. "He doesn't know I exist yet, but soon. I'm sure of it." That didn't set well with Altair. He knew first hand that love and infatuation could sway ones loyalties. In Maria's defense, however, she had been on the wrong side from the start. In Tanya's case, he was willing to bet that any romantic interest had ulterior motives, and that thought twisted in his chest.

"How are you going to do that?"

"I'm setting up a meeting." Altair frowned at this, pretty sure that this meeting was what Aisling was trying to prevent, at least judging by Tanya's reluctance in naming the man.

"You be careful doing stuff like this. I don't want to read about you getting knifed in a back alley." Morris' tone was full of concern as he said it. "I need to get back to being useful."

"I'll be fine." The smile was audible in her voice.

The footsteps moved back into the hallway and traced back from whence they'd come. He heard a heavy door open, and the echoes of forklifts, then close again, sealing the hallway into a muted stillness. In the following silence, Altair moved down the hall again, pausing beside Tanya's open door to listen. She puffed a heavy sigh, murmuring about saying too much, and Altair heard a desk door grind open. Rattling that tapered down to a single tap. A snap and more rattling. The desk drawer grinding. She was taking pills of some sort, and Altair heard her speak again. "Invoices, invoices. Orders. QAs. Values checks. Floppy disk." The last punctuated the list. "Floppy disk? Floppy disk?" The tone shifted to confusion. He heard her begin to rifle through the contents of the office, and he backed away toward the double door in case he needed a quick escape. A good idea, it seemed. The shuffling in her office became thuds as things were being thrown aside in her search. Shortly thereafter, quick footsteps exited the office, breaking into a run as they came his direction. He stepped aside as she tore down the hallway, throwing herself into the door and shoving it open. It seemed as if she hadn't even seen him as she passed, so focused was she on that lost disk. He saw her cut right in among the shelves of boxes and turned back down the hallway, making the most of the brief moment of her absence. The office was disheveled, proof of her manic search there before bolting out into the warehouse. There was little out of the ordinary in there. He flipped one of the papers aside on the desk, seeing a small planner. The days were blank. Nothing planned, or nothing marked. He flipped the page, seeing next week, and two days from now was colored in red with 1300 written in. No location. No name. That had to be his deadline. Flipping the page back, he looked around the office. It was dry and sterile. Not a photograph or comic to be had. Three water bottles stood in a row at the edge of the desk, one of them empty. Other than that, no personal effects. He frowned. This was strange. Unbalanced. The taupe walls were oppressive beneath the drop ceiling. The bookshelves weighed the room, and the flashing glow of the cursor on the computer made it seem surreal. He turned back to the desk, catching a glimpse of an orange bottle in the slightly ajar top drawer. It was half empty, and he read the name clopixol on it just below her address. Apartment 6G. He filed that away, not having anything beyond the street address of her building until now.

Footsteps. Rapid. Light. She was coming back. No getting out the door. She'd already turned the corner, and he doubted she'd walk right by him again. He glanced up, noting the ceiling tiles again, and hopped up onto the desk, shoving a tile aside and launching himself up the wall with two steps and catching an icy pipe suspended above the ceiling. Shifting his grip to hold the cold pipe in the crook of his elbow, he reached down and returned the tile just as the office door slammed. He hung there in the darkness a moment, listening to Tanya as she growled and shoved things about in the office. "God!" She snarled beneath him. "Stupid morons. They were looking at it. Flipped the write protection and everything." Something snapped. "If they overwrote that, so help me…" The threat trailed off. Another snap. "Good. Eight years worth here. Not mine to keep too much longer." Pills rattled again. The sound of air battling around water into a bottle. "They know. They know. God, I need to tell them the truth. I need to tell somebody. I'm going to pop. Go nuts. Not back to the hospital." A heavy thud. "Need to work. Not think. Two more days, Tanya. Hold on that long. Two more days."

Altaïr wondered at that little monologue. She didn't seem any more stable than her office had indicated. The keyboard was rattling now. She'd apparently turned off her worry and immersed herself in her work. He looked around the crawlspace above the ceiling now that his eyes had a moment to adjust. The second, solid ceiling was poured concrete, shot through with supports for the various pipes and ductwork snaking through the narrow space. It was probably only four and a half meters wide, and he couldn't quite see well enough to estimate how long. The width seemed to be just enough to allow for the hallway and the small offices nestled along this outer wall of the building. Not surprising. It was a warehouse after all. The ceiling below wouldn't hold his weight, so he had to hook his legs into the pipes in order to propel himself anywhere. He moved down toward the end of the offices and hallway. The going was slow, as he had to check the temperature of some of the pipes. Some of them were surprisingly hot, and he couldn't guess what purpose that might serve but to make his dangling gymnastics any more annoying. He barely had three quarters of a meter between the concrete ceiling above and the drop ceiling below.

A small sliver of light snaked through the ceiling near where the concrete ceiling turned down to become the wall as well. When he got closer, he saw that the light came from missing tiles. Once he'd positioned himself above them, he peeked down, finding a small closet of cleaning supplies. The door was closed, so he dropped down, listening a moment to ensure that he wouldn't be running into anyone before stepping out into the hallway. He was just inside the large double doors where he'd nearly had a run-in with Tanya hardly twenty minutes ago. He moved through the doors, tracing where he'd seen her bolt before. Turning the corner where she'd turned, he saw at least ten rows of shelving units that stretched well over two stories above him. At the end of those, he saw a wall lined with windows looking into yet more offices. He moved that way, noticing that the offices were mostly administrative, and empty. He checked one of the clocks as he moved into the more personal space of the offices and cubicles. Quarter to ten. Probably people taking their morning breaks. He noted a concentration of voices off to his left, down a small hallway formed as walls took the place of cubicle dividers. He moved that way, realizing that it had to be the break room.

He noted a few hasty exits, glanced around to see who was preparing to move for their break, or who might be paying attention, satisfied his need for preparation and waited and listened. Chatter about families and children. He shook his head, realizing he'd always danced around that subject, or denied children altogether, when, really, he couldn't go a week without running into a descendant of his bloodline. Not that he always recognized them when he saw them. It wasn't his job to follow the bloodlines, though those of his line did seem to factor into the grander schemes Aisling cooked up. Other events and goings on. Movies. Books. Finally a break when he saw another woman duck into the break room. "What happened around the printers?" He heard her nasally question.

"Tanya happened."

"Again?"

"Yeah. She left a disk by the printer, and I was trying to see whose it was because it didn't have a label. She freaked out on me. Thought she was going to try to run me through the shredder."

"Seriously."

"That's pathetic."

"What was even on it?"

"I don't know. Looked like she was tracing her family tree or something. Just a bunch of names and dates."

"Think she's trying to find the real parents that ditched her into foster care?"

"She was in foster care?"

"I don't know. What normal people would have her turn out like that?"

"Janet, stop it." Altaïr recognized Morris' voice.

"Oh, hey Morrie." The offending woman said, not really chagrined, but sufficiently derailed from the subject. "How's the wife and the dog shows?"

"Doing fine." His voice was considerably colder than what Altaïr had heard in Tanya's office. "She's in Baltimore this weekend."

That vein of information tapped, he turned and headed for the door. It was pretty obvious that Tanya had no allies with any real knowledge of her affiliations here. Morris seemed to be little more than a sympathetic character. Perhaps an interested party, but Tanya seemed completely closed off to any advances of any personal nature. He made his way quickly and quietly out of the building and onto the subway.

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He found himself in at the door to Tanya's apartment, patiently working the tumblers into submission. The door opened, and he took in the small and Spartan apartment. One bedroom, one bathroom and a large common room to serve as kitchen, living room and dining area. Probably sixty square meters of floor space, but what more did a single woman with no desires to expand need? The walls were still white, and painfully bare. The counters clean. The single table in front of the couch empty but for the remote. A short shelf by the door with two pairs of shoes tucked on the bottom, and a sparse collection of books of genealogy and some delusional self help books. Not the type of thing you'd leave out for company to see. Moving to the bedroom, he saw the single piece of furniture in there. The bed, around which the walls were covered with overlapping butcher paper. Writing covered the paper. A web of connections. Names. Pictures taped up. He saw himself on the wall in numerous places, mostly in printouts from surveillance cameras. Eric was up there. Quite a few of his connections as well. But not a breath or sign of Aisling. Considering the apparent focus on family lines and heritage, no wonder Aisling had been absent. She'd never had a child that he knew about, and never named her parents, though he had doubts that Tanya's research would take her back to Aisling's birth in the 300s.

This map of family ties was probably what she contributed. Aisling could see the future, not the past to see from whence someone came. She relied on others in their areas of expertise to provide that information, or skill, as in Altaïr's case, which was why he was still alive now. He was still useful, and until his usefulness ran out, he'd continue to rise from the dead and continue to do the bidding of the Brotherhood, be it killing, watching, sabotage, guarding, or even researching. Strange though, that the same information that kept the Brotherhood abreast of the actions of the Templars seemed to be driving one of their own to madness. He saw the trio of pill bottles on the bathroom counter through the slightly open door. The pile of empty water bottles on the floor beside the bed. Perhaps if the Brotherhood had driven her to this madness, she saw the Templars as her salvation? He couldn't imagine any shelter or solace within that manipulative and cutthroat group. How could they take her at her word? Had they been manipulating her? Using outside forces to drive her to this brink? Making life seem hopeless and options seem limited. He'd seen that countless times. Used both on his allies and on the hapless bystanders to their hidden war. She didn't seem hopeless in her actions. This was a foolish risk Tanya was taking. Foolish and destructive. For all concerned.

He moved back into the common room, glancing around the sparse kitchen. There was nothing on the refrigerator. No magnets. No notes. The cabinets were stocked. The dishes clean. The whole abode was very vanilla and painfully devoid of personality. A red envelope caught his eye in the trash. He fished it out. It was unopened. A letter. To this address. Sent to a Marcus Demitry. His current alias. The label was printed. There was no return address. The postmark was for New York. His own zip code even. He opened it. It also was typewritten.

'April 11, 1998

My dearest Marcus,

It's been so long since we've talked. We're so close and yet so far away. I'm sorry if you think I'm avoiding you. I'm not. I just need my space. Time to think. The proposal was sudden, and me not answering wasn't me saying no. I'm sorry it seems like I can't tell you how I feel. It just won't come out in the right words. I thought writing you would help, but it didn't. The first note was too empty. It didn't have enough of me in it. I left it sitting on the counter to remind me just what I'm doing.

I got that one snapdragon you sent me. I'm surprised a florist will do a single stem delivery like that. What does it mean? Just one flower? All by itself. Nothing to share, and no other flowers to share it with. Sorry. I sound crazy. Maybe I am going crazy, but that's a really dark thing to come up right now, and I don't know what made me think of it. Sorry.

Oh, by the way, your uncle Robert dropped by a day early. I wasn't expecting that, and the house wasn't even cleaned up yet. I felt so horrible. Is it normal for your whole family to run early like that? I know you always do, but with you it's different. It's like you're there in the nick of time.

Sorry. I can't help what I say. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you and I'm sorry to leave you standing there like that. I didn't even tell you why. I just left, but I bet like always you knew what to do. You always know what to do. I'm sorry. I'm rambling, but I wanted to get in contact with you. Sorry I couldn't bring myself to call. I'm just a coward like that.

I'm sorry, and I do love you.

More than words.

AnnPalila'

Aisling again, or rather Celia. Whichever name went with the cunning mind. He knew it this time because of the initials. So far, he'd had only one mistake from an ironic missent letter from someone with Aisling's initials. The chances were too slim here for that to be the case. He read over it again, picking out what actually needed to be conveyed and what was just padding to make it look like a lovelorn letter. He ciphered through it, finding reassurance in what Aisling needed to tell him, though the warning of the Templars coming sooner was a little unsettling. He hoped the day early was literal. He could finish this tonight and be gone with all traces of evidence and her ties to the Brotherhood before tomorrow even rolled the clock.

He shed the jumpsuit and worked the wrinkles out of his old and familiar black coat, if it could be called as much with no sleeves, finding the hood and pulling it up as he sat himself down on her bed to wait.

Darkness fell before there was any sign of her homecoming. The lock turned, and a gust of slightly warmer air from the hallway washed through the apartment. The door thudded closed. Two heavy steps across the carpet, then silence as she apparently had taken off her shoes. A clatter on the counter. He leaned over to see out the bedroom door. Her back was to him, and she'd dropped a bag on the counter. It had tipped, spilling out a pill bottle, a pen and a couple disks. She moved away from it, out of sight. He heard the cabinet door open. Ceramic clinked together. The faucet ran. He stood up and moved out into the common area. Her back was to him while she selected a box of cereal from the trio in the cabinet ahead of her. He could kill her now. Quickly and easily. The pressure of the hidden blade around his wrist seemed to increase as he became aware of its importance. No. Not yet. He needed to make sure. No. He needed to know why. Why would she do this? He started to speak and draw her attention, but she spoke first.

"Mmm.. shredded wheat, but I had that yesterday. Okay, puffins then." She pulled down a box and paused, cocking her head to one side as if listening. Her ring finger and pinky tapped against the box in no particular rhythm. "Feels different tonight. Maybe I am doing the right thing." She puffed a sigh. "Or maybe I finally went too crazy to notice that I'm nuts. Whatever. It's quiet, and that's good." She chuckled at this and turned, finally seeing him standing not a meter behind her. She gasped, dropping the box of cereal and taking a step back into the counter. "A-Altaïr!"

He wasn't surprised that she knew his name. Judging by the paper on the bedroom walls, she knew him well. Knew him through many years and many names. Longer years than people should be alive, thanks to Aisling and her curse. He kept his expression neutral. It wasn't hard. He wasn't sure whether to pity her for her developing madness, or be disgusted by her choices. "Have you spoken to any of them?"

The surprise lessened in her features. She didn't seem confused, and answered as if they'd been talking about it already. "I was going to tomorrow."

So she was definitely not manipulated by the Brotherhood, but very much a part of it. That stung him with the realization. "How could you betray us?"

She pursed her lips and furrowed her brow, not quite irritated, but perhaps confused. "Altaïr, do you love?"

"Love?" He gave his head a little twitch of confusion, completely caught off guard by the direction of questioning in which she'd immediately derailed them.

"Do you feel love?" She took a step toward him, holding her hands out as if she'd physically receive an answer. He noted that the last three fingers of both her hands were moving, making small waves. He wondered if she meant something by it, or if she could control it. The movements were a little jerky, so he leaned toward the latter.

He cocked his head back to look down his nose at her, ignoring the motions of her hands. "What sort of question is that?"

She dropped her hands to her sides before leaning down to pick up the cereal box. "An honest one." She said with a small sigh. Her voice shifted to something more tentative. "Do you feel love?"

He mused over this a moment. It wasn't the first time. He'd had plenty of advances made on him in the past few hundred years. He'd shrugged them off, never really touched by the affection or lust contained therein. Why? The feeling was genuine, and he appreciated it, but couldn't bring himself to reciprocate in the same vein. There was something Aisling had always reassured him, though he'd never voiced his consideration of his actions. He used some of her words to answer Tanya's question. "Love is a verb. Love is my purpose. Love is what moves me." She'd always said something like that. Perhaps that was the same reason for her to isolate herself?

Tanya nodded slightly, turning the answer over in her mind before speaking again. "But do you use love on anyone or does love use you?"

He finally waved off the line of questions, pretty sure now that she was a little beyond most psychiatrists' ability to help. "You make no sense, woman."

She leaned back against the counter, a frown settling across her mouth. "Then love uses you. How do you live like that? Without love?"

That question stuck. It made sense, and he had an easy answer for it. "I stopped living a long time ago."

Her frown took a thoughtful edge. "History says that you died, but it doesn't seem to be the whole story. Nevermind that you apparently didn't stay dead."

He sighed. "I loved a woman, long ago. Before I died. She's gone now."

"Maria." She said, pointing at him.

"Maria." He said, staring levelly and blankly at her.

She nodded, and pushed off the counter. "Then we're through here." She put the cereal back into the cabinet and turned back to him again, waiting.

"We are. Thank you for your services of love to our purposes." It seemed a strange way to thank her for her service to the Brotherhood, but fitting in this particular scenario.

She walked past him around the counter. "I loved you."

He'd turned to follow her, and stopped when she spoke. "Loved?" Another one? Was he the person she'd been talking about earlier today instead of the Templar she'd be meeting up with? How could she have set up a meeting with him if he didn't even know her, much less have a line of contact with her. Had she spoken with Aisling? Had that fool Aisling set this up? His mind whirled at the possibilities. Was this a trap now? No. He'd looked around the apartment. The windows wouldn't permit anyone through the narrow gaps. The closets were empty. The front door was locked.

"Still do." She smiled shyly over her shoulder.

He shook his head, glancing around once again just to make sure. "Do you even know me?"

"I know your history and your family, and that's why I can't walk out of here." She turned to fully face him as he picked up a kitchen towel off the handle of the oven door and moved closer to her.

That much made sense. She was going to die as it had been commanded, and she knew it. Did she run to this death willingly? Had she planned it? Why not just dive off the roof? Did it matter? He was keeping information out of the hands of their enemies. "It is." He affirmed her statement.

Her smile broadened. "I'm glad they sent you."

"Are you?"

"Glad that it was you and not anyone else."

He cocked his head to one side. "Why me?"

"I wanted to meet you just once, so I could tell you I love you."

Love is a doing word. What would move him otherwise? Even if he couldn't drum up love for others in his chest, he could always make use of what others gave him. He permitted a small smile. "For that I will keep moving. Thank you for giving me purpose."

"Glad to be of a final service." She smiled. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Giving me the first moment of quiet in my head in more than twenty years." He glanced down at the tremors moving through her hands, and then his eyes caught the prescription bottle orange on the counter. Her eyes followed his, and she turned back with a smile. "Glad to finally be rid of it all."

He paused a moment. "You're welcome." The blade flicked out from his wrist, threading through the kitchen towel he still had in his hand. She looked down at the motion, not really reacting. He closed the gap between them, reaching around and placing his right hand on the small of her back and using his left to slide the blade neatly beneath her ribs and upward into more than a couple vital organs. He felt her arms go around him, giving him a little squeeze before going boneless and sliding back to her sides. The blade retracted, and he tipped her back a bit so he could get to a small auto injector from a small holster on his belt. It was a basic and light gas jet injector, and he snapped the top and held it to her wound. To rapid hisses, and the one-shot had deposited the chemicals into her body. He slid the one-shot back into the holster and pressed the towel against her wound. The chemicals would start to foam momentarily, and probably force more blood out. He had a few people in the crime scene cleanup business, and had since taken measures to make their jobs as easy as possible. He counted about ten breaths before scooping her up and placing her on the couch.

He stared down at the body for a moment, thinking. Unsure what to make of it. Little to be done now. She had a half smile still on her face. It was strangely reassuring, and spurred him to motion. He needed to get those papers off the wall in her bedroom, take the disks and get out of here.

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a/n I think Tanya went nuts. Random research note. Clopixol is an antipsychotic, and a very strong one at that. Side effects of long-term use include tardive dyskinesia, which is a fancy name for the shakes, though they usually manifest in facial tics and such. Don't ask me what the point of this is. It holds little more point than any other 'Altaïr kills a mark' story, though I guess it could be the vehicle that shows why he's not such a manwhore in my grand unifying yeh. I dunno. Go look at the rant at the beginning.

So the black coat that Altaïr was wearing was based off the armor attributed to him in AC2. I do believe that Altaïr would've gotten that back after Ezio was done with it, but that's another story altogether.

Got questions? Ask me about them. I might have answers. There are messages, reviews and forums for your mode of asking. I like to hear your talk noise.


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